The Wheel O Fortune | Page 9

deemed
this attitude a trifle too free and easy in view of the relations that would
exist between them in the near future.
"You will find a pen on the ink-stand," said he, quietly, stooping, over
some papers on a corner of the table. Then he added, apparently as an
afterthought:
"Don't forget your name, Mr. King."
The hint brought Royson back to earth. He signed "Richard King,"
dried the ink carefully, and marveled a little at his re-christening and its
sequel.
"When and where shall I report myself for duty, sir?" he asked.
Von Kerber looked up. His tone grew affable again, and Dick had
learnt already that it is a token of weakness when a man insists on his
own predominance.
"First let me fill in a date and the amount of your salary." The Baron
completed and signed a duplicate. "Get that stamped at Somerset House,
in case of accident," he continued, "I might have been killed this very
day, you know. One of my servants will witness both documents.
Before he comes in, put this envelope in your pocket. It contains half of
your first month's salary in advance, and you will find in it a card with
the address of a firm of clothiers, who will supply your outfit free of
charge. Call on them early to-morrow, as the time is short, and you are
pretty long, yes? Report yourself to the same people at four o'clock on
Wednesday afternoon. They will have your baggage ready, and give

you full directions. From that moment you are in my service. And now,
the order is silence, yes?"
While the Baron was speaking he touched an electric bell. The waxen-
faced man-servant appeared, laboriously wrote "William Jenkins"
where he was bid, and escorted Royson to the door. The Baron merely
nodded when Dick said "Good night, sir." He had picked up an opera
hat and overcoat from a chair, but was bestowing a hasty farewell
glance on the Persi-Arabic letter.
A closed carriage and pair of horses were standing in front of the house,
and Royson recognized the coachman. It was that same Spong who had
groveled in the mud of Buckingham Palace Road nine hours ago. And
the man knew him again, for he raised his whip in a deferential salute.
"Not much damage done this morning?" cried Dick.
"No, sir. I drove 'em home afterwards, broken pole an' all," said Spong.
"That's not the same pair, is it?"
"No, sir. This lot is theayter, the bays is park."
So Mr. Hiram Fenshawe, whoever he was, owned the yacht, and ran at
least two fine equipages from his town house. He must be a wealthy
man. Was he the father of that patrician maid whose gratitude had not
stood the strain of Royson's gruffness? Or, it might be, her brother,
seeing that he was associated with von Kerber in some unusual
enterprise? What was it? he wondered. "There may be fighting," said
von Kerber. Dick was glad of that. He had taken a solemn vow to his
dying mother that he would not become a soldier, and the dear lady
died happy in the belief that she had snatched her son from the
war-dragon which had bereft her of a husband. The vow lay heavy on
the boy's heart daring many a year, for he was a born man-at-arms, but
he had kept it, and meant to keep it, though not exactly according to the
tenets of William Penn. Somehow, his mother's beautiful face, wanly
exquisite in that unearthly light which foreshadows the merging of time
into eternity, rose before him now as he passed from the aristocratic

dimness of Prince's Gate into the glare and bustle of Knightsbridge. A
newsboy rushed along, yelling at the top of his voice. The raucous cry
took shape: "Kroojer's reply. Lytest from Sarth Hafricar." That day's
papers had spoken of probable war, and Royson wanted to be there. He
had dreamed of doing some work for the press, and was a reader and
writer in his spare time, while he kept his muscles fit by gymnastics.
But those past yearnings were merged in his new calling. He was a
sailor now, a filibuster of sorts. The bo's'n's whistle would take the
place of the bugle-call. Would that have pleased his mother? Well, poor
soul, she had never imagined that her son would be compelled to chafe
his life out at a city desk. The very, air of London had become
oppressive; the hurrying crowd was unsympathetic to his new-found
joy of living; so, without any well-defined motive, he sought the ample
solitude of the park.
Be it noted that he usually went straight from point to point without
regard to obstacles. Hence, in his devious wanderings of that
remarkable day, he